


Worship

by bexacaust



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: M/M, mild robogore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-07-10 08:04:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6974650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bexacaust/pseuds/bexacaust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When my eyes were stabbed<br/>By the flash of a neon light<br/>That split the night<br/>And touched the sound of silence</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worship

People always asked you if you believed in Primus.

At one time… maybe you could have. At one time, you had fond memories of hymnals. Of a chorus rising with the morning. Of something warm and powerful wrapped around you. Of love, of adoration. Desire and intimacy on a level beyond the physical.

But it was no Creator-God who gave you that, no.

You found spirituality in a smile; you found absolution in the flick of finials and a hum of your nickname; something you can never hear again.

You found a better God to worship; and he went by Drift.

Your god was a master of war and wanting; of living and dying. He had walked the line for a million years past, and a million years hence. He danced upon it, extending his hand to you to pull you from the grey places; the bolt-holes given by fear.

He banished your shadows and sins, he healed your scars with a laugh and a kiss to your cheek. When Primus had turned his gaze fro you; when you cried out for a savior it was DRIFT who answered your call; he pulled you from perdition…

At the cost of himself.

You lost him once, you’re wandering deity, the stars coaxed him from your side when you had finally learned to stand. You fought on through a new purgatory, you whispered prayers to him in dark nights, hopeless nights, neverending nights.

And, like a newborn Messiah, he returned to you. With a laugh like a new bell, booming across your stark existence like a call to the faithful, and you answered in your quiet way.

And once more, he offered his hand as he danced the line of life and death and spoke in his hum of a voice, “Hey Percy.”

And you followed, like a hungry apostle. You took his hand and kept up with his steps the best you could; you relearned the dance until you both moved effortlessly in a funeral waltz-

But then, like everything does, the music stopped.

The music stopped on a battlefield; it stopped with the sound of chaos around you in a cacophonous orchestra. The brass was of gunfire and the percussion explosions.

The crescendo was a scream; and only now do you realize it was your own.

_“DRIFT, LOOK OUT!”_

As the charges exploded, you thought back to another time; you had seen acrobats perform. They tangled themselves artfully in an organic fabric; “silk” it may have been called. Reds and yellows and blues and whites, like rings of fire that carried them higher than singed paintflecks and burnt propaganda.

And now, as you watched, he became one of those dancers; wreathed in fire like rare silks.

You watched, screaming for him, screaming for another savior because you were weak, too weak to save him.

And as you watched him; as his paint curled and flaked off, he transformed into something otherworldly. 

Backlit by disaster and bound by hellfire, you watched him become something more. As he reached for heaven, as he reached for gods you long abandoned to instead follow him like a lost soul seeking grace, he became more than a mortal creature.

And for a minute; wreathed in fire and glory and gore, you swore he became something holy.

And then the light flashed, and time flowed correctly and you were running, running after him and screaming.

It was all you could do.

You wrote a new hymn for his Name, a new song for a church only you belonged to until you stumbled into the dust beside what was left of your white-plated messiah.

Paint sizzled, his optics had already offlined. Part of his chestplate had shattered away to reveal a gaping emptiness sprinkled with razor-bright dust.

_“D-Drift…”_

A comet since spent, a meteorite exploding in the atmosphere; like that, he was gone once more.

Your servos hissed and scorched as you grabbed him, what’s left of him, and you pulled him close and held him tight and felt your spark tear itself in two.

The singed and burning battlefield was silent now. A last ditch effort for victory on the enemy side. A kamikaze attack with disastrous consequence.

And you held your ashen one; your phoenix of burnt plating and destroyed wiring, and you began to weep. You wailed, helm tilted back and optic bubbling over with coolant as you rocked him; there in the dirt, on your knees like a mourning widow you sobbed.

Rank and reputation have no meaning here, where Death and Life meet in a tumultuous tide of grey and black and gravesoil. Medals and honor are nothing to unstoppable forces surging towards an apex point.

Here, you were not Perceptor, the Sniper. Perceptor, the Wrecker. Perceptor, the Scientist.

Here, you were Percy, lover of Drift. And here, your spark had burned away to nothing as surely as his plating had in a fiery blast.

Like a dying mech, you cried.

Like a mourning mother, you cried.

Like a lost and tired soul, you cried.

And you felt damnation creeping in at the corners as you singed your lipplates kissing his forehelm.

And you rocked with him against your chestplate, back and forth, like grass in the breeze; like wilting roses in a  graveyard vase.


End file.
